


If Snow Loves the Trees and Fields

by nervoussis



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Anxiety Disorder, Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield Have a Good Relationship, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Gay Billy Hargrove, Kindergarten Teacher Billy Hargrove, M/M, Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, Slow Build, The Grumpy One is Soft For the Sunshine One, Therapy, acts of service
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervoussis/pseuds/nervoussis
Summary: Billy spends three days waiting for Steve to make it easy for him.Because Harrington's a home owner and there's always something, right? A problem he needs help with; a leaky pipe that needs fixed, a cup of sugar for a recipe that he didn't account for, ghosts in the attic. Typical HOA bullshit.So he brings up flowers again, because.Fuck it--maybe he's wanted to see Steve behind a bouquet of Lilies of the Valley for months now.(or) winter is not a season, it's an occupation.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Eleven | Jane Hopper/Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 47
Kudos: 143





	1. Walk Gently Through My Shadow

Billy's job at Willowbrook Elementary is the only reason he puts up with this weather at all. 

His hatred for winter, a season which hardly existed when he taught in the Valley, morphs and becomes something violent on the first Monday after Christmas break.

He wakes up feeling like his toes have gone missing, frozen black and blue with the cold, and after his phone tells him it's below zero outside, with wind-chill, his heart stops beating.

Hawkins is -10 degrees, to be precise.

And it leaves him feeling like that's gotta be illegal, or. He could _for sure_ call all the scientists on Earth and have a law passed that clarifies: those born and raised in a Southern climate get a free pass on days when Hell is actively freezing over. 

But it's not snowing today. And all the ice on the street has been scraped into terrible, disgusting drifts that block his driveway, and Hopper would immediately call bullshit. All, _gonna have to suck it up if you wanna live here, buttercup._

So Billy decides to be an adult, or whatever. He spends another five minutes on his phone definitely _not_ stalking his ex's Instagram before rolling out of bed to get dressed.

And, like. 

Even his _underwear drawer_ is stiff from the cold so Billy decides to bundle the fuck up--a trick he learned from Max last fall, during the coldest year Indiana had ever seen. He manages to stack five layers in total; one pretty pink thermal set just brushing his his skin and a button down shirt to stave off the goosebumps. A sweater and jeans for professionalism. One Grateful Dead hoodie, because it makes him feel like he's not a total sell out, and a thick winter coat, sent special from the snow capped mountains of California.

It still smells like his mom's pikake lei perfume.

Billy tries not to think about that, of _home_ , on a day when he'd give his left nut for a ray of sunshine.

Instead, he spends ten minutes filling his thermos with coffee. Boiling the rice milk more than once so it'll stay warm on the ride across town. He sticks his pinky under the lip after his third go, and fuck that shit is so hot it will burn his mouth _tomorrow,_ before checking the weather app again for closures.

Hoping against hope that something has changed in the last five minutes.

Of course, nothing has.

The superintendent believes that everyone in Hawkins is somehow used to temperatures that makes their eyelids freeze shut in the thirty second walk to the car in the morning. Billy jams a knit cap on his head and seriously considers calling in.

A last ditch effort to quell the rising fury in his veins, that like.

He's gonna have to scrape his windows, and freeze his dick off, and deal with _the neighbor_.

The one who looks like he doesn't mind the cold so much because he carries the sun with him, fucking asshole.

People shouldn't be wandering the streets when their eyelids could freeze shut, right?

Billy checks his phone one more time, frowning at a text from Joyce to _pick up some coffee on your way in,_ and tosses his bag over his shoulder before he can change his mind.

\--

It's so much worse than expected. 

Billy's lungs seize up on his second intake of fresh air because _no one_ should be huffing sulfur or gaseous _ice_ or whatever the fuck this shit is first thing in the morning. On a Monday. The first one after Christmas break, and. 

"God damn, holy shit, holy _shit,"_ Billy bounces the whole way to the Camaro, breath coming in short, comical bursts of steam that make his nose run. He swipes dramatically at his face, struggling to get his keys into the lock while balancing his thermos on one arm and his messenger bag on the other.

Billy's in the middle of forcing the door open, its hinges are frozen solid with ice goddammit, when Steve fucking Harrington appears like a cloud on the wind.

"Howdy neighbor," Steve says. Like they're cowboys in a shitty film from the 1970s. The wind kicks a lock of brown hair into Harrington's face and he shivers. "Wow, it's really blowing out here, huh?"

Midwesterner's love doing that.

Pointing out the obvious.

Billy grumbles a response, flinging his car door open and jamming the keys into the ignition.

Steve's saying something.

Talking like always, about his cat or maybe the beer they keep saying they'll have together, and generally Billy puts up with it but not today. He isn't going to freeze to death for a pair of legs.

The Camaro roars to life, clearly pissed at having to work on such a disgusting day, and. Alright. Letting your car "warm up," is something so Midwestern Billy can't even talk about it.

It takes him all of two minutes to scrape his windows, electing to carve holes in each wall of ice rather than clear the whole thing. The metal handle of the scraper Max got him feels like the ninth circle of hell against the peachy skin of his fingers.

He should've bought some mittens.

Joyce is always saying he needs mittens, he should've _asked_ for some--

Billy tosses the scraper into his back seat and climbs in, slamming the door shut behind him and cranking the heat up to high. Steve's watching from next to the fence in a fucking _pea coat,_ and a scarf with care bears on it, and.

Nothing else.

Fucking asshole.

Steve waves at him, like; _hey I'm talking to you._ Frantically, like the mouse Mr. Bane caught last week is so important that they gotta stand out in the frozen tundra to talk about it.

But.

Billy's trying to back out of the driveway with five layers of shit restricting his movement. He cranks the music up and cautiously pulls onto the street, nice and smooth like he's seen Steve do effortlessly even with three inches of ice on the ground. Fucking asshole.

Billy makes it halfway before he hits something.

The wind kicks hair into his face as he assesses the damage.

"You should've scraped your driveway last night." Steve says helpfully. 

He's got a cigarette hanging from his lips, stark in contrast to the weird home made scarf he's got folded around his neck. Billy tries not to think about Steve's lips as he makes his way to the back of the Camaro to see that, yup.

_Of course._

His baby is stuck in the snow. Billy kicks the tire. Like that'll fix anything.

"That's not gonna fix anything." Steve says, leaning against the fence.

"Jesus, fuck. I _know,_ Steve." Billy scrubs a hand across his face, gesturing to the Care Bear scarf. "Why the hell are you wearing that thing, you look like a fruit."

"I am a fruit."

"Well you look like the whole goddamn bowl, pretty boy." Billy digs around for a cigarette. "My kindergarteners don't even fuck with the Care Bears enough to own scarves." Billy squints, assessing Steve from head to toe, delighting in the awkward squirm of his limbs. He clicks his tongue, disappointed. "Couldn't look any fruiter if you tried."

Steve shrugs his shoulders, like. _Don't yell at me, this isn't my fault._

And okay. 

He's cute.

Billy gets struck by that every time he sees the guy, all over again, like. His profile is perfect. Sharp nose, pretty eyes. Thick lips.

Steve holds out a cigarette.

Billy takes it.

"One of my residents made it for me. He's learning how to flat pattern." Harrington says shyly. "Well, he made it for his grand daughter, but. It turned out worse than he expected so I offered to take it."

Billy squints. "The fuck does that mean?"

"Just means I was trying to be nice--"

"No, the." Billy grins in spite of himself. "The flat patterning, what's that?"

Steve shrugs again. "I'm not sure, I think it's like. A sewing term. Or something." A pretty blush the color of Steve's scarf spreads across the bridge of his nose. It looks like strawberry ice cream and Billy.

Has to look away.

"My mom sews," Billy says gruffy. "I've never heard her say that."

"Well, maybe she drapes?"

Billy squints again. "What?"

"Draping. That's another thing people do--"

Billy stamps the cigarette out and kicks his tire again. Steve jolts, like. Billy tried to kick _him_ or something, which just makes the situation worse. 

"God, they should've cancelled classes." Billy states. Well, _screams,_ to no one in particular. "Who wants to go to work in the snow, who fucking. _Likes_ this white bullshit?"

Steve leans against the fence and looks thoughtful. "I love the snow."

"You're not helping."

"You asked."

"No, I didn't." Billy shoots back. He digs his cellphone out and shakes his head. "Why are you still here, Harrington? Don't you have old people to take care of?"

Steve chuckles again. Light, like Christmas bells. "Don't you have screaming brats to teach?"

"My car's kinda stuck in the snow, you fucking dick." Billy's so focused on trying to order a lyft that he doesn't waste time on pleasantries. He expects that to be the end of it, when the wind picks up and he swears again, but. Steve just moves closer.

"Let me drive you." Steve says.

And.

The moment sort of hangs there. 

In the two years that Billy's lived next to the guy, they've never hung out. Never house sat for each other, never spoken outside the occasional _could you make sure your idiot friends don't block my driveway,_ and empty promises to grab a beer sometime.

So the offer catches him off guard.

Billy glances up from his phone, confused, to find Steve looking everywhere but at him. Harrington's shifting his weight, like. He's fucking _nervous,_ or something.

Or maybe hoping Billy will say no because he's just being polite.

Billy glares.

Of course he's just being neighborly. _Charitable._ That's what Midwestern assholes do.

Billy waves his phone in the air, like, "I'm ordering a lyft." And it comes out sharper. More aggressive than he means it too, but Steve doesn't seem to notice.

"Just ride with me, it's on the way."

"Jason will be here in--" Billy points at the screen. "Ten minutes."

"What's Jason got that I don't have?" Harington quips, and.

Billy just wants shit to go back to normal. He shakes his head again, all, "Nah, 's okay, pretty boy. Thanks anyway." Before turning back to his phone like he's got important shit to worry about. 

Steve stands.

Stares.

 _Waits,_ for longer than is necessary, before clearing his throat. "Okay, well. Happy first day back." He says. 

And if Billy didn’t know any better he'd say Steve sounds almost.

Disappointed.

\--

When Billy gets off of work that night the snow is gone from his driveway.

\--

Billy still has bad days. 

They always start before dawn. With the claws of his nightmare leaving scratches down the lining of his throat. It's like Billy's carrying an anchor around his neck, or his veins are filled with playdough the color of the sun on those afternoons. He feels lazy and sluggish and like if someone looks at him for too long he'll break. Snap and crackle, like an open flame against fresh skin.

Billy still has bad days but they don't come unless he's been slipping for a while. Like forgetting to take his medication, or not writing his letter every night before bed.

The one addressed to Neil.

The one his therapist says will help him work through the last of the road blocks that stand in the way of, "ultimate healing."

Billy used to think it was horseshit.

But Neil. Everything that happened, everything that _still_ happens--when Billy goes home for Christmas, or when Susan calls and he can hear the slur of hate on the other end of the line--is standing in the way of something, or. Everything.

There are so many letters.

So much he wants to say, written on anything Billy can find, like. Napkins and the backs of take out menus--old drawings that the kids send home with him after Art class on Fridays.

The pages are meant to be kept in a three ring binder.

His therapist says it's important to decorate it with, like. Stuff that makes him feel good. Words and phrases, stickers, pictures of the people he loves and drawings of all his favorite things. The binder is supposed to act as a visual reminder of the blanket of love that surrounds him, or something. 

Melvalds only had brown folders when he went to pick his up, so.

The folder is brown. Disgusting.

And so far the only decorations he's been able to stomach are one of those fancy stickers from Redbubble that depicts his favorite episode of _Daria,_ and a picture of him and Maxine with underwear on their heads.

Billy thinks it could be sad to some people.

That a poor, little abused boy only has two things in life that protect him from the shadowy parts of his brain, but it's the truth. Life is hard and fucked up. Billy has trouble letting people close, letting people _in,_ so he sticks with the basics. The tried and true.

Maxine and his gravity bong.

Billy Hargrove is a simple man. 

\--

So it's two weeks after Steve shovels his driveway and Billy tells his therapist, like. "This fucking guy just. Did something nice for me."

And she clearly wonders what's wrong with him. "Did you say thank you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

 _"Because,"_ Billy tries not to get defensive about shit these days, because. It's only a hop-skip-and a jump from defensiveness to downright aggression and Megan, his well meaning shrink, doesn't deserve that even on her most annoying days.

His leg bounces under the table, thwacking against its mahogany edge loud enough that Megan can hear it over the fucking _phone_ , so she says, "Billy. Stop." 

Because they have a deal about nervous ticks.

Billy is supposed to say his safe word when he starts to feel anxious, but.

He fucking hates that shit. Hates being babied. Hates feeling like he's a goddamn basket case that needs to be rooted in reality when his trauma rears its ugly head. Billy smiles, the whole thing falling flat against his face. "I'm stopping."

Megan sighs. "Why haven't you thanked Steve for his act of kindness?"

"Because, like." Billy's shaking his leg again. Softer this time; it's a secret. "How do I know he isn't trying to, fucking. Get information out of me. Or out me to the community, or. Make fun of the way I'm a grown man who can't shovel his own driveway after a snowstorm--"

"I think you're internalizing your fears, Billy."

"Yeah, no shit." He snaps. Billy feels bad for half a second but then she's giggling, like she always does, which makes him feel less like the big bad wolf and more like one of the three little pigs. The guy with the straw, maybe? 

Billy sighs, scrubbing at his face. "What does that even mean?"

Megan makes a noise on the other end of the line, like. In the six months that Billy's been in therapy he should've _learned_ this by now.

Dude's got a short attention span, sue him. 

And, sure enough. "Twice a week we meet over the phone and you haven't learned that internalizing your fears means you're imaging the ending to a story you haven't even read yet?"

"Like, uh," Billy says intelligently. "What's that shit you're always saying? About seeing a book on the shelf and--"

"Guessing the ending. Yup, that's right." Megan sounds pleased. Billy ignores the bloom of happiness in his chest, because like. He doesn't really deserve it. She doesn't give him time to dwell, though. "Steve did something nice for you. _Maybe_ he has suspicious intent--"

Billy sucks in a breath, like.

Dramatic. Loud enough that Megan snorts and says, "Hold on, you're jumping to conclusions again." 

Billy really fucking. 

_Hates_ how perceptive she can be. 

Megan keeps talking and Billy listens, because he pays her, after all. "If you're really worried that his intentions are cloudy, do something nice for him in return."

"Something nice," Billy repeats. Like he's never heard of such a concept. "Something nice, like. Buy him flowers?"

Megan snorts. "Do you want to buy him flowers?"

"No, why would you think that?"

"Because you--" His therapist sighs. Billy embraces the shock it gives him, yanking her chain a little bit. "Listen. I don't know this Steve person, and I've never heard you talk about him beyond this beer you're supposed to have together, like. _Never._ But has he given you a reason to think he's out to hurt you?"

Billy thinks back over two years and a million one-dimensional interactions.

Steve never loses his temper.

Not when Billy calls to have the cars that block his driveway towed, not when Billy bitches about the daisy bushes shedding into his yard in the fall, and Steve always picks up Mr. Bane's cat shit from Billy's front porch when the Gremlin actually goes outside. 

Always with a smile and a sweet little, _I think Mr. B likes you._

And, like.

It _was_ pretty nice of Steve to offer Billy a ride that morning.

And shovel his driveway after work, just because he knew Billy probably wouldn't do it.

The whole thing, it. Fills Billy with something he can't quite express, a warmth he only ever feels when Max calls a dozen times to remind him to eat dinner after he sends a few intense messages. 

Megan takes his silence, as always, like a breakthrough. 

"So," She says, clearly satisfied. "Same time next week?"

\--

Billy spends three days waiting for Steve to make it easy for him.

Because Harrington's a home owner and there's always something, right? A problem he needs help with, like. A leaky pipe that needs fixed, a cup of sugar for a recipe that he didn't account for, ghosts in the attic. Typical HOA bullshit.

Billy stares out his window at the lovely split level next door and decides he'll take anything, _do_ anything, to get this fucking anchor of guilt off his back for the whole driveway situation, but.

The opportunity never presents itself.

The ducks never fall in a row.

Steve just leaves the house every morning, same time as Billy, same as always, with a gentle _Howdy neighbor._ And a smile tugging at his pretty pink lips, hair perfect and windswept because he's a fucking asshole and it only takes two days.

Forty-eight hours before Billy's hatching a plan to pay Harrington back and _inventing_ problems to solve, like some sort of demonic Bob the Builder. 

He calls Max on Thursday and comes up with a list. Something tangible, like breaking Steve's garage window with a ski ball would be efficient. Or trapping Mr. Bane in a sweater and pretending like he's gone missing so Steve will have to round up a search party, but. 

Billy knows Megan would call that _instigating, antagonizing, and causing trouble,_ which Billy's trying not to do anymore.

So he brings up flowers again, because.

Fuck it--maybe he's wanted to see Steve behind a bouquet of Lilies of the Valley for months now.

And Max goes all soft.

And quiet, too, before whispering, "I'm really proud of you, you know? For getting better."

Then suddenly Billy can't breathe because there's a lump in his throat.

Because he _is_ trying to get better. To live honestly, to lead with _love--_ whatever hippie-dippie bullshit Megan is always spoon feeding him, so.

With Max's blessing, Billy's about to, like. Knock on Steve's door with a plate of pot brownies and a shitty _thanks for being a decent human_ card when Mr. Bane leaves a dead bird on Billy's porch, the third one in a month, and Billy hatches an idea.

\--

Steve's front door is yellow. 

Like. _Sunshine_ yellow. Valley girl yellow.

Which Billy used to think was charming but now thinks is kind of annoying, when coupled with Steve's perpetually sunny disposition. And okay. Maybe it sort of pokes and prods at that piece of him that's always missing home.

Maybe it makes him a little bit sad, like. He'll never really feel at peace anywhere else.

But before Billy can dwell or raise his fist to knock on the door, Steve's opening it and preparing to step through. He's using his foot to stop Mr. Bane from running out into the yard so he doesn't see Billy right away, which.

Also means he's going somewhere.

Which inherently means Billy's caught him at a bad time. Billy holds the paper bag closer to his chest and feels the words bubbling up before he can practice his breathing, or. Stop them. Because this is his third biggest fear after arguments and spiders.

"I've caught you at a bad time, I'm sorry, I'll just come back la--"

Steve breaks out into a grin so big. So _bright,_ that it rivals anything Billy's ever seen before.

"Howdy, neighbor!" Steve says.

And Billy shifts nervously from one foot to the other, like. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, it's not a--"

"Because I can come back." Billy nods, already turning on his heel to escape, and like. Fly into the sun. "Or not at all. I can just mail it to you, that's. Yeah, I'll just stick it in the post or something."

Steve grabs his elbow. 

Billy looks at the hand on his elbow, and down at Steve’s feet. There aren’t any shoes or anything, so. 

Billy's overreacting.

Fuck. He swallows, raising his eyes with caution to see Steve smiling again. Even wider than before, if that's possible. 

Harrington licks his lips. "Whatcha got there?" He says, nodding to the bag, and Steve.

He's wearing glasses today.

Billy feels like someone hit him on the back of the head with a ski ball. Steve looks so soft, in white stripped overalls and a green sweater, that Billy doesn't know whether to fluff him like a pillow or fucking.

Punch him in the face.

Billy holds out the paper bag. "It's for you."

Steve looks at him strangely but he's still smiling, which.

Is good.

Billy thinks it's good but then he _knows_ its good when Steve giggles. "I gathered that. What is it?"

"It's a, uh. You know." Billy tries. "You know one of those things? Where it's, like, a _thing_ but you aren't supposed to know what it is?"

Steve blinks at him, cheeks turning pink like they always do. "A surprise?"

"That's the one." Billy snaps his fingers, like. Ah-ha. Except it isn't a surprise, it's just. "It's a way to say thanks. For the whole," Billy concludes, gesturing vaguely to their front lawns.

Steve blushes even harder. "You didn't have to get me a present--"

"It's not a present."

"That was just me trying to be nice." Steve leans against the door jam, eyes searching. "It doesn't call for a--"

"It's _not_ a present." Billy says again. Steve doesn't look like he believes him, so Billy, like. Shoves the paper bag to his chest. "Look, open it now or don't. Fucking, _throw it away_ for all I care, it's fine." 

Billy turns on his heel because fuck this.

Fuck trying to pay back nice with nice and fuck _Steve_ for starting this whole debacle to begin with. Billy makes it down one step and then Steve is laughing so hard he can't stand up straight.

Which just makes Billy feel worse, because.

"You're laughing." Billy gapes. "I bring you a present to say thanks for not being an asshole, and you're laughing."

Steve doesn't answer, he just.

Keeps on laughing.

And okay. 

_This_ is Billy's third greatest fear. After abandonment and fighting. Fists covered in blood--his or someone else's, it doesn't matter. He frowns, turning to leave again when Steve straightens and coughs once into the palm of his hand.

"Thought it wasn't a present," Steve quips, and he's looking at Billy with, like. Sparkly eyes. He shrugs. "I'm not sure what it means."

Billy doesn't get it. "It doesn't have to mean anything--"

"No, like." Steve peers into the bag again, clearly holding back tears. "Why did you get me a bag of dead mice?"

"You can get them at the pet store." Billy says, because. You can, alright? He fiddles with the sleeves of his winter coat. "They're for Mr. Bane."

Steve just stares at him, eyes twinkling like two polished diamonds in his head.

And he's not saying anything, or. Laughing anymore, he's just. Watching Billy fall to pieces on his walkway as he tries to defend himself.

Billy focuses on the clouds that inch across the sky. "Mr. Bane, he's. He's always catching shit, like. _Dead_ shit and leaving it on my porch. I just _thought_ if he wants to eat dead things I can just. Buy him a pack or whatever. Like a normal person."

Steve grins. "You know they do that because they think you can't feed yourself."

Billy wrinkles his nose. "Well I fucking appreciate it, but I don't want to eat dead mice and birds and shit."

Steve chuckles once before staring again.

Like he's memorizing Billy's face, or like. They're having a competition that Billy doesn't know about.

Billy gestures to the bag again. "Would you just accept it, Steve? Please?"

Harrington looks down at the mice in his hands and nods slowly, like the decision is really requiring some thought. 

Billy feels stupid.

This was so fucking _stupid--_

"Sure, Billy." Harrington says. Soft, and. Sweet. "No one's ever given me such a thoughtful gift before, so. Thank you."

And Billy feels like the tin man getting oil on his joints after a year of rusting in the forest, when Steve accepts his weird ass gesture. He nods, mouth lapsing into a thin, unamused line. "Okay, then. See ya 'round," Billy says. 

And then he's turning, and.

Leaving.

Before Steve can say anything else.

The clouds inch like caterpillars across the bright winter sky and Steve's walkway seems so much longer on the journey home.


	2. Mystic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) Take a chance on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.  
> It just keeps on snowing here. Every couple of days we get between 4-6 inches of that Good Ole White Stuff. Praying for snow is such a visceral human experience. Sometimes it's more like ice, today it was powdered sugar. 
> 
> Every time I shovel my driveway I consider the places this story could go.

"I'm sorry, you gave him _what?"_

"I thought it was a good idea at the time."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah." Billy snaps. "It seemed interesting, you know? Quirky. More original than baking a pie, or--"

"Making a point to shovel his driveway the next time it snows? Like a total normie, dude. Tit for tat."

Billy thinks it's funny that a woman who makes her living in vaginal health would say tit, but. Doesn't seem like the time to bring it up.

"I thought you were trying to get laid?" She asks.

But, look.

The thing _is:_

"I'm _not."_ The wooden spoon in Billy's fist groans under the pressure of his thumb, nearly splintering into the flame. "I'm trying to be neighborly, Max. Polite. I know you've never been in the Midwest but they thrive on niceties, it's like a circus for the freaks out here."

"Alright, I'll give you that." She laments. Billy can sense the curl of Max's grin in his fingertips. "Still. Gifting someone dead mice is the least polite thing I can think of."

"Well, what do you want me to do about it now?" Billy tosses the spoon onto its little cozy by the coffee machine. "The damage has been done."

He hates. And loves. That his sister can revert him back to thirteen. To being awkward and whiny and uncomfortable in his own skin; nervous at the possibility of having his insecurities hung out to dry. Max is ace at prodding the most sensitive parts of him. Digging up the bleeding, pulsing center of Billy's spirit and bisecting his heart. 

"Steve thought it was funny," Billy says. "He laughed."

"Laughter isn't the goal."

Billy crosses his arms, staring into the pot while the soup bubbles and boils like a vat of brown potion. "What's the goal, then?"

"Getting you laid. Plain and simple."

"I don't want to get laid though."

"Okay, fair," Max chuckles. "But shouldn't we keep the door open? You know, just in case something changes?"

And. Billy doesn't want to open that can of worms. The one that writhes and seethes in his belly every time Steve pulls out of the driveway on his way to work, sometimes wearing his glasses, sometimes not, and always stealing the air from Billy's lungs.

He grits his teeth. "Can we talk about something else?"

He really hopes that'll be the end of it, but of course it's not. 

"How could a bag of dead mice scream _Fuck me,_ Billy?" 

'"You got tampons shoved in your ears or something?"

Max snorts. It sounds more like a bark, like. She's growling at him from the edge of a darkened alleyway. "Cause I'm a gyno. Very clever--"

Which Billy ignores. "How many times do I gotta say; I don't want to fuck Steve Harrington. I just. I thought--"

"You thought it was a good idea at the _time."_ She teases, and. 

"Yeah." Billy huffs, somehow finding himself embarrassed for the first time in a week. He recovers quickly, moving to put a lid on the boil and bringing it down to a simmer. "You don't know Steve. He's like. Weirder than an Alien in uggs shopping for a prom dress."

And just as remarkable, Billy doesn't add.

"And you haven't been served a restraining order since gifting your little uggy dead rats?" Max asks, but.

"He appreciated the gesture, and. They're mice." Billy spits. "Don't exaggerate." 

"Mice, rats, it's all the fucking same."

"Language." 

"You can't boss me around anymore, I'm in my twenties," Max sounds like she's trying not to laugh, which.

Billy hates. 

He digs through the fridge in search of soda, shifting the phone from hand to hand. "What's that got to do with anything? You still have to listen to me."

"Listen to you? Are you fucking five?"

"Add about thirty to that and yeah, almost." Billy chuckles, moving to the warmth of his living room as Max flicks a lighter on the other end of the line. "You wouldn't know how to skate if it weren't for me."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, you wouldn't step foot on the board until I told you it was okay." Billy grins. "I'm your big brother and, by logic, better than you."

From the other end of the line Max cackles like a little red headed sea witch. "Oh yeah? Name one thing you've got on me."

"I can name five," Billy says, flopping down into his recliner. "Surfing, hitting dabs, taking care of kids, women--"

"Liar liar," Max says, speaking through the inhale, "In terms of, like, experience with women; I've got about six years on you."

And that.

 _That_ makes Billy spit cherry coke at the T.V. screen, the arch of it narrowly missing Karen Wheelers face as she delivers the six o'clock news. "Bullshit you know more about women than me." Billy says, cherry coke sizzling in his lungs.

"I've for sure been with more girls than you." Max challenges.

Which.

"Not true. Not true at _all,_ senior year of college I--"

"How many women you slept with before realizing you're gay doesn't count."

"Like fuck it doesn't." Billy howls. "I've had way more 10s than you, and you know it."

"El is a fifteen." She concludes.

"You've been together four years, that's old hat. Doesn't count." Billy says. He reaches into the magazine rack next to his chair and pulls out the quilted bag Max sent in the post a couple of weeks ago. 

Thinks it was supposed to house his air pods, but.

Really he keeps his dope in the tiny side pocket along with a packet of lemongrass wet wipes and a stick of gum. Billy takes two towelettes and blots carefully at the screen, almost like he's worried about ruining Karen's makeup.

He wonders, distantly, what Max would say if she knew he almost bagged a _Milf_ last year during his dry spell.

"My _fiancé_ doesn't count?" Max wheezes. Billy can tell by the tone that her face is red. "I'm sorry--who called _who_ for dating advice?"

"My thing with Steve doesn't warrant dating advice." Billy snaps, grinning in spite of himself. 

"Maybe not now," Max says. "Not yet." The sound of a door opening in the background makes Max pull her head away from the phone, taking her voice along with it. "Fuck, El's home. We have tickets for the--"

"It's alright, kiddo, we'll talk later." 

Max doesn't say anything for a moment. And then; "You'll be alright?"

Billy flops back down in his recliner, watching as Karen Wheeler gives the stage to Alan Stewart and the little pixilated clouds that announce the weather. "I'm fine, dad. Go have fun. Tell Ellie I said hey."

Max chuckles. "You're such an asshole."

"Yeah, but you miss me anyway."

Max falls silent after that. Billy can hear the sizzling tip of her Marlboro gold. Then, after a long moment; "Are you sure you're okay?"

Billy sighs. "I'm fine."

"But you're _sure,_ sure? 150%" Max wonders, kissing her girl by the disgusting sound of it. "Because I can always come down for Spring Break, you know. Whole week of uninterrupted sibling bonding in the woods, like we planned."

Billy told her not to come this year.

After his rough patch, and the up in his medication, and the whole thing with Steve, Billy.

Doesn't want to feel like a burden.

He settles back into the recliner, taking a swig from his soda can. "I'm super sure. Positive."

"Alright, dork, if you fuckin' say so. Didn't wanna hang with you anyhow." Max pulls away again, puffing on her cigarette, slipping back in to demand; "Call me next week." 

Billy wants to roll his eyes. "Same time?" But instead he's swallowing against a lump in his throat.

"C'mon, Hargrove, this is standard procedure by now." Max chuckles. Billy can imagine the winded shake of her head, ginger snap ponytail swinging back and forth. "Same time, dufus. Unless, y'know, some spare change pops up before then."

"Spare change--you know I'm a teacher. You think I wait around, ass out, for our weekly bull sessions?" The little clouds on the screen start releasing snow. Billy lurches forward, spilling cherry coke down the front of his hoodie. "Ah, shit."

"What? What happened?"

"It's supposed to snow this week, apparently, like. A lot." Billy scrubs at his hoodie with a used wet wipe, Lady Gaga's hat now bordering on magenta rather than bubblegum. "How the fuck did I miss that? I don't have any ice melt, or. A shovel--"

"And how are you expecting to land the pair of legs next door without one?"

Billy snorts. "How would you know if Steve has--"

"Oh, come on, you've always been a sucker for a nice pair of legs. I know Steve's got some climbers." Max waits. "Well, does he?"

And.

Billy does his best to glare at the television. "You're lucky I'm two-thousand miles away."

"Two thousand-forty seven." Max says lightly. 

Billy tosses the wet wipe to the floor, wishing again for Spring Break.

"Yeah." He says, "I know."

They spend the next five minutes shooting the shit. Trying not to be sad over things that lie out of their control, Max demanding that Billy go out and buy a shovel or scrape Steve's driveway in nothing but an apron and a pair of socks. He avoids spewing cherry coke by inhaling it instead, coughing up a lung while she laughs at his misery. 

Typical.

By the time he's able to, like, breathe in without feeling like his lungs have caught fire, Billy figures he's earned an easy night so he rolls a joint. He's just grinding the dope when El joins their call and they spend twenty more minutes making Billy's sides split open.

He misses the hell out of them.

Mammoth Lakes and his mother's house on the river. Hiking with Max, baking with El, it's. 

Hard to be reminded of what all he's missing.

When Max has to go, like. When she _really_ has to go, after the soup is cooling on the Stove and Billy is halfway through his smoke, promises are made. The only ones Billy has ever kept.

Max promises to call next week and make plans to come visit during his week off.

El promises to send more cookies in the post.

Billy promises that he's alright, really, and after the screen reads _call ended. 1:45:15,_ Billy tries not to feel like the sun has been ripped from the sky.

\--

Billy's halfway through his second joint when the doorbell rings.

He's lounging around in boxers and thick, woolen Scooby-doo socks that his mom sent for Christmas this year. Eating his way through a pot of Lentil and Chives soup to distract himself from calling Megan.

The soup had too much salt. 

Max texted again before heading out with Ellie for their date night, and.

The soup had too much salt.

Billy knows it shouldn't matter. He's the only one who lives here, the only one who'll be swallowing down mouthfuls of sand for the next three days as he works his way through the pot but he'd wanted to, maybe.

Take some.

To Steve.

What with the snow and all. Make sure the guy stays warm, content and soft with a full belly in front of the fireplace Billy knows he's got in the living room of that lovely, pastel split level. 

Billy wanted to share his soup, but he isn't going to feed Steve ten mouthfuls of sand.

That isn't going to happen, and.

He's smoking through his joint, trying not to call his therapist on a Friday night, when the doorbell rings.

Billy tugs the strings of his silk robe loosely around his hips, spoon dangling from his mouth, and opens the front door to find.

Steve.

Waiting with a packet of ice melt stretched out before him.

"Howdy--"

"What the fuck are you doing here, Harrington?" Billy spits, only. That's not what he means.

Steve's smile falls flat, like a punctured balloon, before filling with air once more. He shakes the ice melt as if it were a tiny, commercialized maraca. "I wanted to make sure you were covered," He says.

Billy leans against the door jam. "For the snow?"

"For the snow." Steve's eyes trail the length of Billy's body. "You know, sitting around in shorts, in February, in _Indiana_ will wrack up your heating bill."

"I don't own sweat pants." 

Steve blinks owlishly behind his glasses at that, clearly confused. "Really?"

"Yup," Billy smirks. "I either sit around in jeans or nothing at all."

Harrington adjusts his glasses, slim, elegant fingers moving to push at the rim before tugging through his hair. It looks soft today. Windswept and clean. Poofy, soft, _delicate--_

"I'd like to see that." Steve mutters.

Which.

Makes Billy grin. Waggle his tongue and grin some more when Steve's cheeks catch on fire. "You wanna see me lounging around in nothing at all, Harrington?"

The ice melt hits the floor.

They both dive for it.

Steve apologizes while Billy straightens again, the packet clenched between two fingers. 

"Here you go," Billy smirks, at the same time Steve says, "I meant the jeans."

Harrington clears his throat. "I meant. I'd like to see you _try,_ to. Lounge around in your skin tight Levi's."

"Yeah, sure you meant the jeans." Billy grins, cocking his head. "You really think my jeans are skin tight?"

Steve's eyes go wide. "It's not like I've been. _Looking,_ or anything. Not like there's anything to look at, you know, I just--"

"It's okay, pretty boy. Missing out on one hell of a show." Billy leans against the door jam again, trying not to take too much pleasure from the way Steve can't seem to stand still. "Thanks for the ice cream."

Harrington chuckles. "Ice _melt."_

"That's what I said." Billy insists, reaching for the packet Steve now has clutched to his chest.

He frowns when Steve won't give it to him.

Harrington pulls away, retreating down the porch steps. "You go back inside, man, I'll put it down for you."

Billy reaches behind the door for his coat. "Fat chance."

"What?" Steve asks, eyes twinkling curiously. "Can you blame a guy for worrying you won't do it right?"

Billy shrugs into his winter jacket, slipping on a pair of rain boots and closing the door behind him. "It's little granules of sand, how hard can it be?"

"It's actually a mixture of sodium chloride, magnesium chloride pellets, and--" Steve reads, squinting until his mouth scrunches adorably on one side. "Calcium chloride pellets."

"Nerd." Billy teases.

Steve feigns embarrassment, climbing back up the stairs and waving the ice melt in Billy's face. "Do you even know the proper way to spread the goods?"

Billy frowns. "The goods?"

"Yeah," Harrington mimes what looks like dusting carpet. "Spreading left to right in a horizontal motion until all areas of the path are covered."

Billy thinks about it.

He reaches for the packet, chuckling when Steve dodges him again. 

"I think I can figure it out."

"See," Harrington mutters. "I don't think you can. Takes a real experienced hand to get it just right."

Billy suddenly feels light headed, with. 

Steve standing so close. Glasses fogged a little from the warm puffs escaping his gently parted lips, wind tussling his hair. 

Billy crosses his arms. "You're not going to cave, are you?"

"Not a chance."

"The fuck are you always so nice for?" Billy demands, squinting at Steve's pink cheeks. "Nobody's this nice to strangers unless--"

"You're not a stranger, we're friends." Steve says softly.

And.

With the warm light spilling onto the front porch lighting each of Steve's moles as if they were stepping stones toward the future, Billy can't say anything other than:

"Alright. Friend."

Before opening the front door and closing it behind him, Steve watching, dazed, from the swell of nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you've heard of the shit happening in Texas right now. Here is a list of charities you an donate to:
> 
> https://www.cnn.com/2021/02/17/us/texas-winter-storm-how-to-help-iyw-trnd/index.html


	3. The Price of Three Oak Logs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (or) checks my body can't cash.

He was still too small to hold the axe with both hands when Neil went missing.

He had been gone for three days when the generator shit out the night before Santa Clause was due for a check in. The cabin was cold enough that Christmas that Billy could see his breath, cold enough to imagine what the families in East Mammoth Lakes felt in the height of summer when stepping into a mansion that dead cows could be preserved in.

In the end Billy didn't have a choice.

His mom stood by the bay window overlooking the river and picked at her quilted apron, the one that sat snug around her hips. She thought Neil had run into trouble but Billy knew the truth; had seen the redheaded woman at the grocery shore bat her eyelashes over every carton of milk Neil bought with pocket change and pints of lager.

It was like that movie, the one where a man imagines how his life could've been had he not married and had kids.

Over worried scraps of fabric and the countdown to Mr. Clause, Billy's mother kept guard as he took the axe from his father's toolbox. He clenched his jaw and lit a flame in his grandpa's oil lamp, wondering if how long it had been since someone sharpened the blade.

Billy swung his axe.

Over and over again, clumsily trying on blisters for size until the trunks had broken down into something fire could swallow. His mother's frail, delicate hands brushed a lock of curls back from his forehead, proud when the flame started licking through the first three logs.

_William means protector, you know._

Billy didn't feel anything like that, and. Judging by the reaction Neil had when he stumbled home at dawn...judging by the way he broke a bowl of soup across Billy's cheek before tossing him to the floor by a lock of springy, blood stained curls--William meant smartass. Bitch. Ungrateful.

He couldn't find it within himself to feel sorry for breaking the rules. By the grace of God they didn't freeze to death before Santa's arrival, so. Neil's master plan had been foiled.

There were no presents under the tree that year.

\--

You could say that's why he teaches kindergarten.

Living at the base of a mountain taught Billy to know the sting snowless winters and frost covered lake heads. To revel in the bliss of summers with his granddaddy on the mouth of the Pacific Ocean, to appreciate the grace of autumn leaves falling like shavings from an iron trap, and. 

To embrace the growing pains.

Mammoth Lakes taught Billy that streams crumble from the fault lines first; daddies don't hold the key to the galaxy, and in order to grow up Billy would have to break a few bones.

Sometimes little boys must chop logs if they don't want to freeze to death.

Steve asks him about it on Tuesday morning. "What made you dedicate your life to teaching brats their 123's?"

And Billy's caught off guard. Running late because his mittens caught fire in the oven, scraping his windows so furiously he doesn't even hear that yellow door open and close from the next house over, or. The crunch of Steve's boots in the snow. A sound which always plants curious brown eyes next to the fence.

Billy opens his mouth to respond when Steve says: "They sell things for that."

And.

Billy doesn't know what he means. He looks down. _Around._ At the snow covered driveway and the messenger bag slung across his shoulder until Steve's chuckling at how Billy's brain cell is allergic to riddles.

"The hole in your glove." Steve nods to the scraper in Billy's hands. "It's got little scorch marks on the cross stitch."

Billy squints at the hole in his glove and the biting frost it lets in, and. The char which proves Billy's an idiot. He grunts, moving to toss the scraper in his trunk. "Y'know for a guy who wears glasses everyday you have, like. X-ray vision or something."

"I think you mean heightened vision." Steve chuckles. "Can't see bones unless they're poking through the old fashioned way."

Billy does his best to scowl which just makes Steve chuckle again, leaning against the fence with his hands in his pockets and a dopey little smile on his face.

"You don't have to stick your mittens in the stove to warm them up, anymore. This isn't the Oregon Trail." He says, because apparently they're still talking about this.

"Might as well be."

Steve grins. "Does that mean one of us will have to eat the other for survival?"

Billy starts the Camaro, speaking coyly over the rumble of the engine. "That's the Donner Party." 

Steve's expression doesn't change. "Okay?"

"So that's not really the same thing." Billy reasons. The closer he gets to the fence, the wider Steve's grin stretches over vast lands. 

"Pretty sure that's still a part of the Oregon Trail." Steve says, leaning against the fence, bending at the waist, and like.

Billy's brain goes fourteen different places with that image.

He clears his throat, looking away to keep from dwelling too long. "The Donner party were a subsection. They weren't part of the original exhibition and by the time they made it to Sierra-Nevada they didn't even count as a fleet anymore." Billy digs around for a cigarette, lighting one and passing it to Steve on impulse.

Steve doesn't hesitate before sticking the filter in his mouth. "Oh yeah? And how would you know that?" He holds Billy's gaze, eyes sparkling with vibrant mischief. "Besides having been there in person, of course."

"Asshole." Billy chuckles, leaning his forearms against the fence. "I teach the Oregon Trail."

Steve mirrors his stance exactly and Billy has to silence the part of his brain that screams and howls about body language. All the things it could mean.

Harrington watches him for a moment, thoughtful. "You teach the Oregon Trail?" 

"Yup."

"To kindergarteners?" Steve's smiling wider, now. Laughing too. "Doesn't that go against, like. Age laws or something?"

Billy snorts. "I don't believe in censorship."

"Seriously?" Steve chuckles harder. "Not believing in censorship for _adults_ is one thing, but. Teaching cannibalism to four year old's?"

"I'm not teaching cannibalism, you dick." Billy shoves him.

Steve goes.

Nice and easy, like a rocking horse, only to swing back and land closer. Right in Billy's space. 

"Sounds like you are."

"I'm not." Billy says. He takes one more puff from his cigarette and stamps it out, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. "What they do at home is none of my concern, man. My business is in laying the foundation for emotional intelligence."

Steve straightens, eyebrows drawn together curiously. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Billy admits. "'S more than what my old man did for me at that age."

And, look.

He really wishes he hadn't said that. Because now Steve's eyes are drooping at the corners, drawn and weighed down by half a sob story. Billy doesn't know what possessed him to bring up Neil, and miniscule as it was, Billy's momentary lapse in judgement has Steve leaning forward again. Opening his mouth to ask:

"What's your old man--"

"Really I'm in the prevention game, you know." Billy says frantically. Then, because Steve's eyes widen comically; "I only have menial experience with cannibalism, I'm not qualified to give lessons."

He hopes Steve will hear the words for what they are; a plea, to just. Let it go. Let sleeping dogs lie.

But of course not. "For what it's worth," Steve says. "I don't really know my old man. If he'd been around when I was a kid maybe I'd be visiting your class on career day to give tips on how to make hamburger meat from human flesh or something."

It makes Billy feel better.

He doesn't know how, or. Why. But Steve mimes putting his arm through a meat grinder and Billy laughs, loud and sudden, all, "You're a weird fuckin' guy, you know that?" 

Steve shrugs, pushing away from the fence with a smile.

It must be the weather.

The fact that the wind is somehow blowing harder than before. Or maybe it's the alarm on Steve's phone that breaks the moment when he tears his eyes away from Billy long enough to fish it from his pocket and say, "Shit. We're getting a new shipment of bingo cards in today, I'd better--"

"Go." Billy says. "I'll catch you later, yeah?"

But Billy doesn't want him to. Doesn't want the conversation to end. Steve's mouth turns up at the corners anyway with that looks like.

Hope.

"Yeah." He says softly. "Later, that sounds. Okay."

"Okay." Billy repeats, ignoring the furious flap of butterfly wings in his chest.

He tries not to get too caught up in Steve's fingers carding through mussy brown locks, or the way he pockets the phone to pull out a couple of bean bags. Steve tosses them over the fence expecting Billy to catch them.

Billy does, gaping at how warm they are. He can feel intense heat through the glove without the hole, for Christ sake. "Holy fuck, what are these?" Billy rubs one on his neck without thinking about it first, failing to conceal the happy noise that escapes his throat. 

Steve's cheeks turn red and bright. "Hand warmers."

"Holy _shit,"_ Billy moans. "How did I not know about these, what the shit?"

"You're a little California rose, plain and simple." 

"Fuck you. I've only just been reacquainted with winter, alright? Not familiar with all this new technology." Billy frowns, working a bean bag under the lip of each glove. "Was born in the mountains." He adds. Because it's true.

Steve's eyes light up at that. "Really?"

"Yeah. Little village called Mammoth Lakes, couple hours from the Nevada state line."

"Huh." Steve mutters. 

Like it's curious, or.

Interesting. "I always kinda pictured you on the coast."

Billy's cheeks go up in flame. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. You know. Surfboard, sea salt in your little Shirley Temple ringlets." Steve shrugs, grinning in a way that has no bark or bite. "Pretty in the summer sun."

Billy's about to catch fire when Steve's phone goes off a second time, cutting the moment in half.

"Well, there's my warning alarm. One more of these and I'll be late." Steve pockets the phone once more and makes a pass to head for his garage. "See you 'round, Hargrove. Get that glove fixed." He adds.

Billy needs a glass of water. "You're not the boss of me." He snaps.

But Steve's already gone.

Pulling the Beemer down the driveway and waggling his eyebrows as Billy flips him the bird, which. Is covered by the folds of his toasty mitten. Billy's halfway to the Camaro when Steve calls out for him. 

"Those warmers won't last till spring." He says, tugging that hideous Care Bear scarf closer to his neck as the wind picks up again through his open window.

Billy waves a dismissive hand. "That's cool. Melvalds, right?"

Steve nods. "I'll bring you a box." 

Which.

Billy tries not to read into. "Don't worry about it man, gotta pass Park street on my way home anyhow."

"Not a problem, I've been meaning to re-up on some shit anyway." Steve moves to roll up his window. Before pausing, and. Licking his lips. "Let's say seven o'clock? I'll bring wine."

Once. When Billy was just a little boy, he was helping his granddaddy hunt for clams on the Long Beach peninsula. They had stayed out longer than usual, galoshes leaving wet, mucky footprints in the clam beds that really only made a difference during low tide. It was late Spring, Billy's favorite time of year and his granddaddy was an experienced fisherman. He knew the dangers, knew the risks, but. Billy begged. Wore him down until they had no choice.

The sun was so gorgeous that day.

Shining off mirror-like beaches. Peachy and warm, the air full of salt and mist off the pacific ocean that Billy wasn't paying attention when he'd wandered too far inland.

The tide came in, and. Swept him up.

Billy nearly drowned. He was only six years old at the time. Only just learning how to surf, so. There's no way he could've known or prepared himself for the way everything sort of slows down when the world is ending. 

He remembers looking at the sky, and.

Thinking if he was going to die. This would be an alright way to go.

And now.

With Steve watching him in the early February sunlight, a gentle, warm smile on his face--Billy feels like every summer he ever spent on the Peninsula has nothing on sandy brown freckles.

So he nods. "Seven works for me."

And Steve smiles. So wide. So bright, cheeks the color of crisp apples when Billy smiles back at him.

"Alright, see you then, Neighbor." Steve says, and then he's gone.

It takes a moment for Billy to find his footing in the snow, both figuratively and literally. Somehow, when the Beemer disappears around the block, the temperature has dropped by ten degrees. He shuffles awkwardly to the Camaro, sliding behind the wheel and taking several deep, uneven breaths.

Wine and handwarmers at seven pm. 

Billy runs a mitten through his hair and thinks.

The tide is coming in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading!
> 
> This is really where my heart lives right now. From where we left off last week, spring has finally sprung. In true Midwestern fashion, I reckon we'll have one more freezing cold week before the sun really shines and I'm absolutely giddy with excitement. 
> 
> I'm going to try and flex my slow-burn muscles with this one, so.  
> If you're expecting a kiss next time round YOU'LL BE DISAPPOINTED >:)
> 
> I'm absolutely evil with anticipation. Okay lysm bye!


End file.
